She may not have kept the exterior of the house up, but Enid is all about self-maintenance. She has had work done, eyes and boobs and lip plumping. The long nails are her own, immaculately manicured and bright magenta. She’s tan without any lines. Her hair, a chestnut cloud with copper highlights. Rail thin and wearing white. She’s still beautiful–not genuine, not natural–but certainly a gorgeous, well-preserved shell without a single drop of love in her. Hollow as a cheap chocolate bunny.
I will not die here. I am not my father, nor my brother. I am not Enid. I may not even be a Grimwalt. I scanned the yard once more. That damned unholy orange lawn jockey. He’s out there with his ugly lantern to call all dead things home.